Dearest Friend
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: With more than miles separating them, Patrick resorts to letters to try and reach out to Sister Bernadette at the Sanatorium
1. Chapter 1

Dear Sister,

I am determined to make amends for my conduct these past few weeks. I have placed you in an untenable situation, for which I am truly sorry. I hardly know myself.

Perhaps you do not think of this. In all likelihood, this is all of little importance to you. I do understand that if you think of me at all, you must wish to forget this strangeness that has grown up between us. I know that I have tried. But it will not seem to go away for me.

I despair that I may have added to your worries at this time. I hope with all my heart, that nothing, most especially my weakness, gets in the way of your recovery. Beyond anything, I wish for you to return to Poplar healthy and happy.

I promise that you will have no need to fear that I would put any demands upon you. You may safely return to your home upon your recovery and fear no attentions from me.

Regards,

P. Turner


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Sister,

It must seem strange that I am writing to you again. My last letter was intended to close the door between us. I will admit to myself that you have likely already done that.

I know that I am giving in to my own selfishness. Perhaps I will not even post this. But I have such a need to speak with you. We spent so little time together, and so little was ever said. But I feel such a connection to you. I will not ask any more from you than you are willing to give. To live without your friendship will be a great loss in my life.

Could you do that? Could you let me in as your friend? I realize that I am asking a great deal of you. And I fear that your sense of duty to God's children might compel you to accept my request.

Here, I seem to have resorted to guilt. Addressing your compassionate heart to stay even in the periphery of your life.

Your devoted friend,

P. Turner


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Sister,

Once more I push on with these letters. My dear friend, these letters to you do me such good. For a brief time each week, I do not feel alone. Of course, I am rarely truly alone. Perhaps in my car, on the way to a call. But I have found in recent years that one does not need to be alone to be lonely.

Have you felt that way? Or is your connection to God a defense against such emptiness? I hope so. I worry about you, there in that place. Have you made friends? Do you miss your Sisters? You are missed here. A clinic does not go by without a young mother asking for you, or a child wishing to hear you sing those silly folk songs you sing to calm them during inoculations.

Timothy, too, asks for you. He is quite angry that I have not taken him to visit you at the sanatorium. You would certainly visit him, he argues. I have explained that you need this time to heal, and that too many visitors would only slow your progress. It's a white lie I tell him to protect myself from the truth. I know that Sister Julienne's visits, and those of your friends, are likely to strengthen your recovery. I cannot tell him that a visit from me would likely hinder the process.

I do not expect to hear from you, nor do I even know if you are reading these letters. My news of you comes from bits and bobs of conversations with the others. From that, I hear that you are, in fact, recovering. I am grateful. I find that beyond Timothy, yours is the health I most wish to grow strong.

Your devoted friend,

P. Turner


	4. Chapter 4

My Dearest Friend,

Summer has come to an end in Poplar. In that green place, have the leaves started to turn? Are the autumn flowers making their last show before the chill of Fall?

I wrote you last week, as I do each Tuesday. But I am afraid my loneliness got the better of me and I wrote of things I should not. I meant to tear the letter up, but could not throw it away. To my shame, I cannot destroy the words that came so honestly, but could worry you so much.

I tell you this, so that you know that while I can make certain promises about my behavior when you return, I cannot say the same for my heart. I am honest when I say, though, that you are safe from me.

Timothy has started school. I find it so hard to believe that he is nearing the end of grammar school. He will begin preparing for his exams, soon and I have high hopes for him. As you know, perhaps better than I, he is a very bright boy. Currently, he is developing a science project for his class, as he is not certain that the Sciences are one of his teacher's strengths. He has also challenged me to finish a book before he does; we are enjoying Gulliver'sTravels. I am afraid with my limited time, he will quickly out-read me.

Do you spend much of your time reading? I know part of you is suited for the quiet life, but I am sure your fingers itch to get out and help someone. I grin when I think of your doctors trying to convince you to rest. Please listen to them, my friend. Only rest, and time, will heal you completely. And I am certain you will be healed.

Your devoted friend,

Patrick Turner


	5. Chapter 5

My Dearest Friend,

Your doctor contacted me this week to inform me of your progress. Imagine my joy when I heard how well you are responding to the triple treatment. I suppose, as your GP, he was right to do so, but I felt such a fraud. In these last ten years, before that terrible day in August, how many times have I seen you as a patient? Once? Twice, maybe? You were never ill. Or, I suppose, you kept silent so as not to draw attention to yourself.

How long have you been this independent? After your mother died, did you have no choice? Did your compassionate heart seek to ease your father's pain by learning to expect little? I can imagine that you learned your healing skills from that early time. Never demanding, always giving. But has this helped ease your pains? Is this why you found a life with the Order? I hope that you have found solace and a sense of fulfillment in this life.

You and Timothy have so much in common. He, too, has become used to disappointments. I try to teach him to be able to depend upon himself. But each time I say something like that, I worry. He has had so much sorrow in his young life. Shouldn't he be allowed to expect someone to be there for him? Or that there can be happiness for him?

There, I began this letter on such a high note. I will focus on that. You are improving daily. That is a source of great comfort to me. Knowing that you will walk out of that place, hale and healthy, is all I ask.

Your devoted friend,

Patrick Turner


	6. Chapter 6

Dearest Friend,

I have told you that simply writing these letters is a balm to me, perhaps even to my soul. My agnostic mind resists such words, yet I do feel the rightness in them. I know that you have written to others. I try to be glad that you have some connections, that you are not alone. But there are times, I must admit, when I think that to hear from you in return would be the sweetest thing. Imagining you here, talking to me, easing my worries. Hoping that I could ease yours.

Do you read these letters? Are they simply thrown away, without even being opened? I suppose if they are, you have no idea of the connection I feel with you. If that is in fact the case, that must be for the best. And yet I find I cannot stop writing.

Timothy received your watercolor today. It was all I could do not to take it from him. I'll keep it safe, I would've said, while you're at school. But it was meant for him. He took it with him as he walked over to the school, cheerfully whistling. All was well in his world. He has you in his life.

Patrick Turner


	7. Chapter 7

My Dearest Patrick,

My head is still spinning. I cannot believe how much my life has changed in just one day. So much has happened, I feel there was barely enough time to say anything to you. And I owe you so many words. So many explanations. You came for me, without any questions, and took me to my new life. I am overwhelmed. I feel as if I am on the edge of something so huge, and yet I feel no fear at all.

For so long I was afraid. I can't remember not being so. My mother's illness went on for so long. And then after her death, I was afraid to show how I felt. I suppose you may be right. Perhaps I was trying to protect my father. He was never an open man, and after her death, I never truly felt him reach out to me.

I know he loved me, but he wouldn't _know_ me. His grief became the focus of his life, and I suppose I learned to hide myself away.

I was sent away to a convent school soon after my mother's death. It was there that I found a safe place. In prayer, I was able to forget myself and become part of something bigger, more "more," if that makes any sense. The Sisters helped me learn to accept my grief and use it as a foundation for helping others. It seemed a natural step for me to find an Order where I could care for others, and devote my life to it.

I will never regret my decision to join the Sisterhood. I have found joy and purpose these last ten years. I have belonged to a union of women who have fed my soul and gave me an importance in this life. But it has also allowed me to hide from myself. I understand now that while a nun must devote her life to others, it is to be a way of serving the Lord, and reaching fulfillment, not a way to avoid her own self.

I did not read your letters for a long time. My confusion, my guilt, prevented me. I knew that I could not read your words until, or if, I had decided to accept you in my life. I knew that reading your letters would delight and entice me. I knew that the connection between us was electric. I was so confused. By locking myself away, I had never experienced anything like it. I was unsure if this spark was simply a temporary physical response. We had been taught that at times, we might experience these feelings, but could push the energy into prayer or service or even silence to find a deeper purpose. But I could not avoid your words. I would open my Bible, and a letter would fall out. My nurse _would_ tease about a mysterious lover (I can assure you, never have I been more embarrassed. I know she meant it kindly, to stir me from my depression, but, well, really!) One night, in my grief, I begged God to show me the way. I had laid myself bare. And the only voice I could hear was yours.

My illness has been my savior. If I had never had TB, I would never have challenged myself to truly know what God wanted. I would have ignored the choice He was placing before me. My life of service would have continued, and I would known His love, but never His joy. With you, I will finally know joy. Tomorrow and all the tomorrows after, I will be loved by you, and freely love you in return.

Allowing myself to open my heart to you has been the greatest gift I could grant myself. I know fulfillment now. God has given me a chance to see a deeper joy in His world. I can feel your love deep in my heart, becoming part of me, and I can feel myself fitting into your heart, as well. It will not be easy, my love, for me to change. With this new path, I am not sure of whom I will become. But I will always be

Your devoted

Shelagh


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: The "missing letter" has been ringing in my head since I first wrote Chapter 4. I thought it should mirror Shelagh's letter in some ways, and this way finally rang true.

* * *

Shelagh sang quietly to herself as she folded Timothy's jumpers into the trunk. There was still so much packing to do, and as usual, the boy was nowhere to be found. He had promised to come straight home after his last cricket match, but more than likely had stopped off with his friends for a final celebration. Tomorrow, the train would take him to Oxford in the morning, and his life would completely change.

As would the whole family's, Shelagh thought. Wiping a tear from her eye, Shelagh let herself mourn a bit for the change to come. Now grown, Timothy didn't need them anymore. He would be home for holidays of course, but the last eight years had shown her how quickly time passed.

Shelagh took a deep breath, then laughed. Tim always teased her for those deep breaths. The last case was still in Patrick's wardrobe, and Tim would need it for the books he planned to bring. She flicked on the light to their room and searched the cabinet.

"How many coats does that man have?" she muttered. Reaching in, she lifted his winter coats out and placed them on the bed. "One, two, three, _four_! You'd think he was a fashion model." Patrick would never agree to getting rid of any of them. She would have to do it herself, when he wasn't looking. Looking over the pile, she paused. She ran her hands over the tan coat. It was worn, certainly, and had no shape to it anymore. "Not this one," she whispered, slipping the coat over her shoulders.

She was back on a misty road, warm from the coat, and warmer from the look in his eyes, completely certain that this was the path her life should take.

She pulled the coat around her, tighter, and felt something in the inside pocket. Reaching in, Shelagh drew out an envelope. She recognized Patrick's scrawl, and read "Sister Bernadette" across the front followed by her address at the Sanatorium. Trembling, she turned it over, tracing her fingers over his name.

Downstairs, the front door slammed.

"Shelagh?" Patrick called. "I'm home."

"I'm up here," she answered.

Patrick pushed the door to their room open. "Shelagh? What are you doing?" He knew Tim's departure was making her sentimental, but he wasn't expecting this.

She looked up at her husband with tears in her eyes.

"Is it Tim? Don't worry, sweetheart. He'll be back before you know it. And think of how much less time you'll have to spend in the kitchen" he joked, sitting down next to her. Shelagh held out the envelope.

"What is this?" Taking it in his hands, Patrick turned the letter over. He let out a big breath. "I didn't send this one."

"No."

"Can you guess why?" he asked, caressing her cheek.

"No." Shelagh was finding it very hard to breathe. It was as if she were back there, the years hadn't happened yet, and she was on the brink of her new life.

"You had been at the Sanatorium for about two months. I hadn't heard anything from you, and I was desperate for some connection. All those letters, and nothing in response." Shelagh made to apologize, but Patrick continued. "I knew you wouldn't answer. You couldn't. But that didn't make it easier. I was so lonely for you. I sat down one night and wrote all those things I hadn't said. Things a man should never say to a woman who wasn't his, and never to a nun. I put it in my coat to post, but never did. In the morning, I knew I would never mail it. It was the saddest moment of my life, Shelagh. I thought I'd never have you."

Shelagh ran her finger along his jaw, pulling him down for her kiss. Instantly, the passion flared up. Deep emotions always did that to them. Patrick pressed her into their bed, kissing her deeply. "Where are they?" he asked against her mouth.

"Wilson's, tea party," she breathed. "Cricket."

"Good." His hands pushed up her skirt and Shelagh squirmed further up the bed to make room for him. She pushed his braces down over his shoulders, grateful that the warm weather had prevented him from wearing a waistcoat today. Her fingers pulled his shirt from his waistband and he groaned as she slid her hands underneath.

The front door slammed again, and Timothy's feet pounded up the stairs. Frantically, they separated, straightening clothes, closing buttons.

"My glasses," Shelagh whispered.

Patrick handed them to her just as Timothy appeared at the door. "Sorry I'm late, Mum. We stopped at Colin's-" he stopped, shocked. "Ugh. Again?"

Shelagh and Patrick burst into laughter as Tim turned away. "Honestly. You two are ridiculous. Could you shut the door next time? That is the _one thing_ I will definitely not miss around here!"

* * *

Hours later, after all the books and clothes had been packed, the supper eaten, and her family settled in bed, Shelagh opened the letter. She looked over at Patrick asleep in their bed, then began to read.

My dearest love,

I dream of you. At night, when the calls out to patients have ceased, when the demands of raising Timothy have eased, when I can no longer close my mind to thoughts of you, I dream. For so long I resisted these dreams. I have no right, I know. But I can resist no more.

I dream of your lovely face, how it shows more of your feelings than you would wish. I dream of your small hands and how they can soothe the pain of a young mother or bring life again to a newborn. I dream of your voice, soothing my fractured soul.

I dream of holding you, feeling your heart beat against mine. I dream of your touch. I dream of knowing you as no one else does and I dream of seeing your eyes open first thing every morning.

I dream of what my life would be like if you were by my side. Medicine has given my life a purpose, but for so long it has also allowed me to hide from myself. I have been able to use it to bury my pain in the service of others. Now, through my dreams of you, I have learned to embrace this pain. Loving you has enriched my life. Without you, my life of service will continue. With you, the fog I have lived under for so long would lift and I would know joy. To be your husband would be the greatest gift.

Your devoted

Patrick


End file.
